


Disguises

by thecookiemomma



Category: NCIS
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecookiemomma/pseuds/thecookiemomma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been wearing disguises for so long that no one looks through them anymore. Well, except for one person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disguises

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "No Names" Challenge on NFA.

It starts off with a small thing: a kiss, a touch, a look, a smile. It never begins with pure intent. It's just how it is. However, most of the time, it stays that way. Just a dip of a toe into a pool, just a taste of a forbidden fruit. Sometimes, it goes just a little farther. Sometimes, it's a short step to a comforting hug, a single night of touches, kisses, sighs... But it's never enough. He never goes beyond the first night, never past the initial foray into the realm of the intimate, because – well, because for as good as he is at lying to everyone else, he's at the very least brutally honest with himself.

 

He sits at his desk, idly twirling a rubber band around his finger, trying to decide whether he wants to send it flying across the room at his coworker or whether he wants to set it gently back down on the desk and return to his reports. Both choices have merit. However, said coworker brought him a doughnut today, so he opts to behave, setting the thin band back down and returning his attention to the screen.

 

Today's disguise is a new one. Or maybe a new version of a very old one. He hasn't tried this one before, and it seems to be working. Only two, no three people in his life have dared to look past the disguises. One of them is dead – has been for years. She knew him well enough to see past the disguises because she knew him when they were paper and cardboard, marker and crayon, eye-holes cut with imprecision and care. His mother taught him about the value of the disguise. True, he perfected his form by watching his father move in circles grand and distinguished one moment, then mingle with the low and crass the next, but his mother taught him the basics. Smile when you need to, laugh when you feel the tears threatening, and let nothing appear to bother you at all. Behind closed doors, favorite beverage in hand – well, that's another story entirely. 

 

Today's disguise. Right. It's of a young man in a military uniform, complete with patch. He's low in the hierarchy. He's the bottom rung of the ladder. Top of the shit-list. He completes every job with ease and without complaints. No one seems to look his way more than usual. Well, no one but the third person. That thought merits a very small smile before he returns to hunting and pecking on his keyboard. 

 

The third person? Well... The second person comes first. She's also dead. The second person was another woman. She was beautiful. She was smart. He loved her dearly. The old joke was that if you loved someone, you gave them a ring. “Put a ring on it,” they'd yell, and he did. It was a gorgeous ring. A friend of his father's had found the ring for him – a 24 carat gold band with a beautiful diamond in the center. The diamond was flawless. Just like she was. Cheesy, yeah, but that's how he saw her. He should have known, though. Flawless things are too good for the world below. Days before they were supposed to stand at the altar and say those sacred words, she was involved in a car accident and died at the scene. He didn't come out of the bottle for a week. 

 

When he did, the third person was the only one left who could see through him. He was the last person he expected to be able to do so. That was a miscalculation on his part, for sure. He'd been interested in both ends of the spectrum since he could remember – which made life in the rank-and-file of the police department and the nascent military quite difficult – but he managed to keep that part of himself separate from the rest. Camouflage, he'd learned from his first teachers, was intended for protection, after all. 

 

So, imagine his utter surprise when the third person invited him to his house, cooked him steaks, and tucked him up into his spare room. He expected nothing in return, just that he was honest with him. Of course, that may have been the highest price. He paid it, though. Happily. One day turned into two, two turned into three, and by the time he left his house, he was feeling much more like himself and able to affix the masks back on his face without all the superglue. The accessories and gear fit more like they should, instead of falling from his shoulders or hanging loosely from his belt, unused. He allows a small smile to slip through the cracks of his shell, and catches the third one's eye. He receives a sharp nod in return. Good. He needs it. Maybe, just maybe, the honesty will continue. Maybe he'll finally be able to tell him the final secret. The one he's been treasuring like old movies and fine clothes. Maybe he'll finally let himself feel. Let himself fall. 

 

Or realize that he already has. 

 

The day runs past interminably slow, as it does every time they spend it sitting instead of actively moving, chasing, working through the puzzles. He aches for the clock to spin its way around to the hour mark so that he can leave. He wants to go home first, grab a few things, change clothes, maybe take a long shower, then head over to the man's house to remove the masks in his presence. This time, he'll remove every last one of them. It should be interesting to see how it goes. 

 

At long last, the time arrives, and his man barks out the end of their day. 

 

“I need to run home first.” He speaks softly enough that the man is the only one to hear. 

 

Of course, a grunt and a quick nod is all he gets in return. It's all he expected. He smiles, and heads out the door, striding briskly toward his car. 

 

One small bag of cheese curls, a shower and a change of clothes later, he's back in the car, heading over to the other man's house. He opens up the door, and steps down the stairs into the man's solace, his private space. 

 

They exchange greetings, and the quiet man gestures toward the workshop table where a box of pizza sits. He was kind of hoping for steaks, but pizza is just as good, maybe better for this conversation. 

 

“So, tell me. What's on your mind?” He's the first to speak this time, which is a rarity. Probably _why_ he speaks. 

 

“Got a secret I wanted to tell you.” He struggles with what to call him in this situation, so he leaves off any referential language completely. 

 

There's another grunt, naturally, but this one is more of an interrogative one. A 'yeah?' 

 

“You know I'm not quite as ...” He pauses, sighing, running his hands through his hair. 

 

“I know.” He seems to be as unsure about roles in this situation, so his words are simple too. The names are unimportant, anyway. They understand each other too well to need them right now. 

 

“You know? You know?” He repeats himself. He's a bit shocked. The last mask feels like cardboard, eye-holes too big and wrongly cut. It feels like a child's parody, definitely not the camouflage he needed. There is no protection behind a paper-plate mask. He tears it off savagely, appreciating the burn it causes, like the removal of the last bandage, the last day in the hospital finally over. 

 

“Yeah. Wasn't hard t' figure out.” The man sets down his implements of construction, and moves over to him. “Just had to make sure it wasn't me hopin' so much I was readin' too much into it.” 

 

“Oh, no chance in hell of that.” He looks down toward the pizza box, more uncertain and uncomfortable. “It's been a long time. Probably since you picked up the pieces after...” Even years later, he can't speak her name without pain, so he gestures. The man understands. 

 

“Yeah?” This time, the question is vocalized. “That long?” He's grins. He's surprised him. That is different, for sure. 

 

“Yeah. Watchin' you forget was really hard.” He wants to add his normal tag to the end of that sentence, but they're equals here, so he leaves it off. It takes real effort. 

 

“Both been kinda stupid.” The older man picks up his sheet of sandpaper and returns to work for a while, the silence falling between them like a blanket, rather than a windowpane. 

 

“Yeah. I'm done being stupid.” His words make the other man snort in disbelief. _He's got a point._ “About this, at least.” 

 

The soft chuckle he gets in reply warms his heart. “Me too.” He drops the paper again, and stalks toward him, intent clear in his eyes. 

 

The young man knows if he intends to change his mind, this is it. This is the Rubicon right here. He also knows there is no way he is going back. Not now. Not when everything he's been wanting and hoping for is so very close. Instead of running away, he walks forward too, meeting him in the middle. He uses his height to his advantage, lowering his head slowly and tilting it just so. He wants this to work. He needs this to work. No one's been this far inside his masks since he painted the first one on his skin after his mother died, and it feels damn good. 

 

Something else feels damn good, and that's the older man's tongue in his mouth. They're standing there, kissing hungrily, devouring each other happily.  


“C'mon.” They break apart for breath, and his host tilts his head toward the stairs, toward bed and connection and release. It's enough. He grins, and happily follows. 


End file.
